"movings" poems
I lived once ago before death
Came and took my soul away
My hoodie is stained with blood and ash
I am so lost they worry as well
To how we got to this hell
I ask them stories to reclaim my brain
One girl says she was on a date
The man she met was nice and sweet
Until it was a quarter til eight
He grew very strange and became irate
He pulled her to the back o no
Quickly unzipped his pants to ******
She felt so much pain and shame
After he stopped he drew a gun
Cocked it
shot her
then smiled
and run
How horrible I thought to die like that
I asked a boy no older than 6
He said he is here but don’t know why
His story was like a newspaper blackeye
Playing with blocks while mom cook grits
The door opened up his brother walked in
To give a toy that he always liked
It was an army man just like his dad
But then that’s when his shirt turned plaid
His shirt stained with red lines all over
He grew real cold his mother in tears
It seemed his brothers gang life came home
Two stories with endings that ached my dome
As I walked past a tv I saw
My truth being told to me
“17 year-old walking back from school
With music in ears the hood on top
However his life would see a drop
A man called in with a compliant
And the cops came looking for a mess
But found a boy who they drew at
Behind his back their guns are raised
4 stop movings
0 warning shots
and then
Un phased
they unloaded their glocks
He fell another live lost.”
My heart
It drops
now I see
why the stain
We are all victims of violence or fear
The world just throws us away like beer
I miss my mom I miss my color
I miss my skin I miss my hair
I miss knowing that I knew love
Now I know my life was never
Going to fit in this world like a
Hand in a glove
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
The girl you see on the train
With a piercing to commemorate each heartbreak
Has a few in places you can't see
— Because you can't know her relationships;
You don't know her heartbreak, or pain.
Instead, you count the suitcases and handbags she is lugging.
The girl who got a new piercing each time her heart broke
Has more smile lines on her face than studs,
So you can see she has had a fair measure
Of good moments:
She is not all rough edges and elbows.
But what you don't know,
And can't tell
From looking at her alone,
Is that she got a tattoo
Each time that she moved on.
The girl with as many piercings as heartbreaks
-And as many tattoos as movings on-
Has eight pieces of jewellery
Strung through her skin,
But only seven markings
Inked into it,
Because she knows she'll never quite get over
The one she can't quite forget.
You'll have to speak to her to know her—
A stranger on the train—
And let her tell you about her life;
And one day you'll hold her hand
As she gets her eighth tattoo done.
Break out of your bubble, if only because
One day, eight heartbreaks in, you'll help her break even.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC
They look at us like we are broken.
They hear our life stories and aww 'miser' for picking up and movings continuously
People are terrified of their world changing and us, we were born into it and know no other
The faces of despair appearing when I say I have moved 9 times, as if I just declared a death.
But the last time I checked
waking up in a different country every four years
is reviving
When I speak about my life my breath is taken away both because its a lot of “and then I moved to..” but mainly because I am amazed every morning by how much I have accomplished at only 18.
The international community I grew up in taught me more than school ever could
The term 'Third Culture Kids' was invented for us and we embrace it and are empowered by it
There isn't a single person I know that can say wholehearted where he is from
Do you know any kid that can say they can sort their friends by continent
& last time I checked that was
beyond impressive
Do you know may language I can swear in thanks to it and obviously communicate in
Walking down the halls and finding someone that spoke the same language as you always made your day and you would go out of your way simply to have a conversation that others wouldn't understand because your connection to 'home' will always be there
But then again, for kids like us ask us where home is and you will never get one response.
Having the backgrounds we have always leeds to political arguments but for once we do not sit and spit out the information we heard from our parents but rather each with his national backgrounds comes to the stage.
& Last time I checked that was
fascinating.
Living out of suitcases
Knowing too many hotels all over the world
packing your house in a container continuously
adapting to a new culture and society
learning to love everyone
not having a say in where you move but being thankful that you have...
& Every time I check
I am grateful
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
I am breathing water through my skin -
Thirsty living sponge absorbing
thought bubble exhales
Inhaled opinion torrents against
the current of mental oceans
flowing through the river of
my [self-creation],
Liquefied individual seas filing
the space of bone, blood, *****
Fleshy container of moon-tide movings,
white capped vocal waves
splashing into the port of ears,
Smashing boardwalk, tropic landmasses
opposing progression of this internal
flooding,
There was no Arc for my [air self],
two-legged, old self,
I am irrigated in washing lake water,
fresh stream sweat beading on the
lip of prayers to old goddesses,
crying melting glacier eyes,
transformed – reformed
further informed,
[simple oasis
pond]
in the [desert] everything
~
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Loves pile high as credibility falls flat
as my heart after another "button" is pressed
Impossibility creeps to the front of mind
wanderings in the shape of a girl's secrets
Summer haze cannot strip away things
present long before I met your mouth movings
(Poetry wreaks havoc of minds unaware
of my privy billiard and/or therapy sessions)
This heart does not move in halves
but moves out of a sincere need for shelter
that is built from something honest
within the self but has yet to be found
without the help of another moving being
So Teddy, Delano, Chagal, and Holy Ghost be mine
only loves and lovers and leaders till I meet my miracle
From
"no more rosy gardens
no more craving curving
Let craving call
and beg and bawl
and face it tall
Let my soft skin have more sweet soft air on me.
Let boulders drown."
To
"Because everyone that I know
Every place that I go
Every story that I’m told
Its love
Its love
It’s love that we’re looking for"
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 11:36 AM UTC
My mouth stands strong.
Ribbon of drool match those in reflection.
My accolade full circle, royal undertow.
Vellicating in dishonourable mysticism.
Moving here & there.
Moving water, wine & a wisdom separating love from the ore.
Learning where musical savants & initiates dim the lights.
Inspectors test restraints, narrowing memory. Now forgotten.
Wake up, remove hairs sprinkled in hidden testimonial.
Misgivings in this shellacked house of homes.
Intellection. Ascending, bending bones. Fissured left-behinds.
To purify all your thoughts.
Resisting universal locomote.
Heels in foreign grease. Bare soles departed.
Movings of brilliantly painted soil.
Telephones relate & relay the balmy decisions you are making.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
A quiet place where it's safe to be.
Where no one moves or speaks or looks.
You're not alone,
But not invaded.
There is never a problem.
Never a trouble.
Maybe you'll like it there.
Prehaps you could stay.
But first you'd have to leave here,
And often that's easier thought than done.
Your head is a lake,
filled to the top up.
You can feel the weight of the water on your weakening shoulders,
And see its depths, and feel it movings,
as you grow stormy from within.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 4:25 AM UTC
You feel like the gray background of the red dot,
walking with the crowd at seven in the morning,
riding the same train,
eating the same lunch,
watching movings that inspires,
and you think you could change the world,
but you can't,
heroes don't live in this boring ways. . .
and then you stagnate,
and then you feel desperate,
and then you do nothing. . .
you just wait for your fate. . .
and be like everyone else,
lying on their grave.
You didn't even make it to the newspapers obituary,
You didn't even appear on T.V.
You haven't even composed a song,
or painted a masterpiece,
or cook a new food,
you haven't contributed to the world. . .
fate.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 7:44 PM UTC